Chapter 31
Chapter thirty-one
Seraphina
Her neck protested the moment she squared her shoulders—a sharp reminder that she had not slept in a proper bed last night but had slumped in a chapel pew.
Using Aldric’s shoulder as her unwilling pillow.
Heat crept up her throat as the memory surfaced, the still drowsy parts of her mind recalling her Crow’s warmth, his quiet safety. Stop it, she chided herself, shoving the memory away before it could bloom into something distracting.
Her kingdom already teetered on a blade’s edge. Arlund was soon to be overrun; Coreto was now raising banners of treason. She was a queen.
She had business to attend to.
The light of early morning spilled through the tall windows of the throne room, painting the marble floor in streaks of gold. What remained of her war council gathered below the dais—her godparents, Olivia, Sir Easome, Father Perero—their expressions tight, expectant.
Aldric sat to her right on the king’s throne, but Seraphina kept her gaze fixed forward, refusing to glance his way.
She feared what might happen if she did—that her resolve might crack, that it might shatter, that she might give in to the lingering temptation of the offer he had made her just last night.
To hunt down Coreto on her behalf.
To bring her back his head.
“I have prayed,” she informed her councilors, letting the words fill the chamber. “And I have an answer.” Please, Lord. Let this be the right path. Let this be Your will, not mine.
Straightening her shoulders, ignoring the latest twinge in her neck, she commanded, “Mistress Olivia, send word to the Duke of Coreto. Tell him that there is no need for more bloodshed. Tell him that I will surrender to him, north of Goldreach, on the borders of his land and mine, just west of the Whiteford River.”
For a long, brittle heartbeat, silence hung over the throne room.
Olivia shattered it by barking out a laugh. “What?”
Duke Percival swallowed. A muscle ticked in her godfather’s jaw. “You cannot be serious, Your Majesty,” he whispered, taking a single step forward. His cane clacked against the marble floor; the sound rang hollow in the stillness. “You cannot truly be intending to just…surrender the throne.”
Seraphina’s hands tightened, fingernails digging into the arms of her throne. “I intend to surrender nothing,” she countered, pushing herself to her feet. “I merely wish to tell him that I mean to.”
Understanding dawned on her godparents’ faces. Olivia cracked a smile. Father Perero frowned. Sir Easome’s expression soured.
She was certain Aldric’s did, too.
“From the very first moment you put this crown on my head, Your Grace,” Seraphina murmured, speaking directly to her godfather, though her gaze swept across the room to include her other councilors, “I have been plagued by…nonsense my father never had to endure.”
She stepped down from the dais. “Multiple peace treaties—broken. War. Both abroad and on Elmorian soil. And now treason. An impending coup orchestrated by a member of my own privy council.”
Even without turning, even without looking back, she knew her Crow watched her every move as she crossed the scant distance separating her from her godparents. His one-eyed gaze scorched her back like an invisible flame. His intensity charged the air behind her like an encroaching storm.
He hated her plan. She was sure of it. Because he wanted her to just sit here in Goldreach. He wanted her to look the other way and let him take care of this latest problem for her.
But she was tired of just sitting and waiting.
She was ready to do something.
Pausing before her godfather, Seraphina met his hazel eyes over the rims of his spectacles. “Why is that, do you think?”
Duke Percival searched her gaze within that nearness. His brow furrowed. “You already know the reason,” he whispered for her ears alone. “Do not make me say it aloud.”
Aldric clearly had no issue answering. “Because they all think you are weak,” he snarled from behind her, where he still sat on the dais. “Any other de la Croix ruler would have had them skewered on a pike for their transgressions, but they know you will do nothing.”
Duchess Edith thinned her lips. Duke Percival’s expression darkened.
Even Father Perero stepped forward to protest, “The queen’s mercy is not weakness, Your Majesty.”
A small smile hitched at the corner of Seraphina’s mouth.
“No,” she murmured, turning to face the angry Drakmori now glaring at her from atop his throne.
His irritation crackled through the air between them—palpable, electric.
Memories of early that morning were far away now.
The warmth of his shoulder, cushioned beneath her cheek, felt like a distant fancy. “My husband is right.”
Her words hung between them for a heartbeat, heavier than they had any right to be. Aldric’s rising anger visibly dissolved like mist beneath the sun. In its place, confusion—or perhaps wariness—claimed his features.
Holding his gaze, she agreed, “My enemies do think me weak because they believe I do not have the stomach for this.” She gestured vaguely. “For war. For…difficult choices like Mysai.”
Mysai.
There had still been no word from Mysai since she had sent her last order to evacuate the civilians. No usuri. No ships. No scrap of news. She could only assume the city had since fallen and that the ships bearing the refugees were sailing for her familial home of Dawnspire, as she had commanded.
But what if they were not? What if they had not evacuated in time?
And what of her soldiers? Those brave men left behind…
Squeezing her eyes shut tight, Seraphina tried her best to blot all thoughts of Mysai from her mind. She couldn’t think about that right now; there was nothing more she could do for them beyond pray. But this business with Coreto? With Arlund?
She could still do something about that.
When next she opened her eyes, it was to find Aldric still staring at her. But with a new expression now written across his scarred features. Something almost a little soft. Something that made her heart skip a beat.
Forcing herself to look away, she riveted her attention back on her godparents, back on Olivia, on Father Perero, and on Sir Easome, who stood pensive for once—silent.
“And this is surely why Coreto let Sir Dacre and Lord Tiberius ride back here unharmed to tell me of his plans: because he thought he could frighten me into surrendering the throne to him. Because he wants me to think my own people have turned against me and no longer want me as their queen.”
Her gaze cut to Olivia. “Who do you think orchestrated those pamphlets, Mistress Olivia? The ones showing my stag being eaten by Arath.”
Without missing a beat, her friend drawled, “Coreto, of course.”
“Of course,” Seraphina agreed, letting each syllable drip from her lips like venom.
“Because he is the one who stands to gain the most by making the people afraid. To make them think I cannot protect them. But if he wants to play that game with me, I am certainly willing to play. Let him think that I truly am weak. Let him think that I mean to surrender.”
Duchess Edith’s brow furrowed. “I will admit that I am a little confused, darling. I gather that you mean to lay a trap for Coreto and arrest him when he meets you to accept your false surrender. But…how?”
By taking a risk.
“One of the reasons Coreto thinks he can frighten me,” Seraphina carefully explained, “is because we have Arath’s army just to the south of us in Arlund and now his to the north—both ready to swallow Goldreach whole should I not bend to someone’s will.
But I am not the only one here boxed in by enemies on all sides.
If Coreto wishes to declare war on me, he will have my armies pressing at his southern flank and the Umberly forces pressing from the north. ”
Sir Easome arched an eyebrow. “You mean this plan of yours hinges on Lord Cyneric?”
“I do,” Seraphina confirmed without pause. “Lord Cyneric is still marching the Umberly forces south to join us here in Goldreach. What if, just as Coreto was meeting me to accept my surrender, the northern forces arrived and forced him into a surrender instead?”
Aldric’s voice rumbled from behind her again, “That’s a big ‘if,’ kirei.”
Duke Percival’s frown deepened. “I like the idea of this plan, Your Majesty.” He spoke slowly, carefully, his reservations plain.
“But as much as I hate to admit it, it would be unwise for your entire plan to rely on my son making a serendipitous appearance at the exact right moment. We have not heard from Cyneric in weeks. We do not know exactly where he is on his march.”
A tight smile curved Seraphina’s lips. “True. But Coreto does not know that.”
Silence fell again. Her godparents exchanged a look.
Olivia’s latest chuckle cut through the mingled confusion and tension now blanketing the room. “So, what’s the plan exactly?”
“We will make Coreto think Cyneric is close, that the entire strength of the north is waiting to sweep down upon him while he is accepting my ‘surrender.’ But we must move quickly,” Seraphina explained, turning in a slow circle to address her councilors one by one.
“For too long we have left the Viscount of Arlund waiting for reinforcements, and now we must contend with this latest threat before we can properly send them.”
She looked to her godparents first. “I need any Umberly banners or tabards you can spare. The more, the better. If we do not have enough, we will stain what cloth we have with soot. There is not time to dye them properly.”
Her gaze danced between her Lord Constable and her husband next.
“Sir Easome. Your Majesty. Once we have secured the Umberly tabards and banners, I need you both to march south today with what troops we have ready. No later than this afternoon. Make a big fuss. Make certain every spy in Goldreach can count your standards as you go.”